


Skin

by red_river



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Fluff, Kisses, Learning the Ropes, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 00:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3708593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_river/pseuds/red_river
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a patch of skin on Mihashi's hip that's been bothering Abe recently. Or maybe bothering isn't the right word. It's just that he's started to notice himself noticing it, the arc of pale skin right above the roll of the bone, punctuated by two soft brown freckles. One-shot; AbeMiha, fluff, kisses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I came across a note someone had posted, a reminder of how young the Oofuri characters are. This story is, in a way, inspired by that. A short exploration of the evolution of Abe and Mihashi, and the sweetness of a new relationship.

**Skin**

There's a patch of skin on Mihashi's hip that's been bothering Abe recently. Or maybe _bothering_ isn't the right word. It's just that he's started to notice himself noticing it, the arc of pale skin right above the roll of the bone, punctuated by two soft brown freckles. They've been teammates a long time, and it's not like Mihashi's body is exactly a mystery to him—still, sometimes he feels his breath catch if Mihashi's practice jersey rides up in just the right spot, finds his feet stumbling on the pedals of his bike when he's trailing Mihashi home and the wind catches the edge of his pitcher's T-shirt and whips it back, revealing that slant of cream skin in the hollow of his hip. He's found Mihashi distracting before—the golden shimmer in his eyes when Abe walks to the mound to drop the game ball into his glove, that tiny transfer of velocity linking them like an electric current for an infinitesimal fraction of time; the breathy music of his shy laughter when they're leaning into each other on the bus, exhausted and high off the win, the vibrations of that sweet sound rippling into him through Mihashi's cheek pressed to his shoulder; the hesitant curl of those beloved fingers in the cotton of his shirt when they pause outside Mihashi's house and Abe dismounts so Mihashi can lean up on his tiptoes and kiss him goodbye, a whisper of contact way too brief for the flush on Mihashi's face and the hurricane in between Abe's ribs. He's gotten used to the knockout force of these things, the three words he can brush across the shell of Mihashi's ear to ease their ache. But this is different, this fixation on one small patch of his skin. Abe's not sure what it means, but he's dreamed once or twice of mapping the dip between those freckles with the tips of his fingers, a private little obsession that's unnerving and exhilarating at the same time.

He's started staying over at Mihashi's a few nights a week, flooding himself with the rush of meeting those sweet brown eyes across the dinner table, trying to keep track of how many times Mihashi bites his lip and keep up with the conversation at the same time. He always starts on a futon on the floor, waits until he hears the door to the master bedroom slide shut before he crawls up into Mihashi's bed, all his senses on overdrive, so they can whisper to each other in the close dark, secrets that get softer and softer until he has to press his lips to Mihashi's just to hear what he's saying. He couldn't be greener at this, still thrilled by the awkward, overeager slide of their lips together, the high of being able to touch this way even if their hands sometimes stumble over each other under the sheet, if their noses occasionally smoosh together instead of brushing like they're supposed to. Abe loves the way Mihashi shivers, buzzing like a hummingbird in his embrace; he loves the moment after their lips break from a long kiss, the gravity between them already pulling him back in. Most of all, he loves that Mihashi's as eager to figure this out as he is, the spark of callused fingers sliding over his collarbone, the awe with which he breathes Abe's name into the seam of his mouth. Abe never thought his name could sound better than that surprised shout under a blazing summer sun when he ran to the mound and spun Mihashi in a circle, both of them still shaking from the last pitch that would carry them to Koshien—but if this isn't better, then it's a very close second.

He has no idea where to put his hands, is preoccupied tonight by the feeling of Mihashi's shy tongue curling against his, mapping this new territory of the open-mouthed kiss, so much so that he almost doesn't notice his right hand has settled over Mihashi's hip, at the crossroads of muscle and bone that's had him so preoccupied—doesn't notice until he does something right and Mihashi whimpers against his mouth and squirms into him, their knees knocking in the blind dark, and Abe's thumb slips under the seam of his T-shirt and suddenly it's not cotton but skin he's caressing, absorbing Mihashi's answering shudder through the pad of his thumb. Abe finds he can't think, can barely breathe, overwhelmed by the burn of that one patch of skin—and all at once he's realizing that they fit together in whole new ways, how fast the added heat makes Mihashi's mouth melt into his, the stutter in the heartbeat he can feel under the heel of his hand. How easy it would be to slide his knee in between Mihashi's legs, nudge him onto his back and find himself staring down into those beautiful half-lidded eyes, listening for an even better incarnation of his name…

But Mihashi's not ready for that, _he's_ not ready for that. So instead Abe retreats, disentangles from the kiss and rests his forehead against Mihashi's so they can both catch their breath while his hand tucks the T-shirt back against that fevered skin, skims up to rest against Mihashi's lightly trembling ribs. Mihashi looks up at him, confused, concerned as always that he's done something wrong—but Abe just smiles, bumps the tips of their noses together, feels the hum of that small contact all the way down his spine. Then he leans in and kisses Mihashi again, but softly, sloppily, like he did the very first time, right before Mihashi's knees buckled and he banged his head against the garden wall, and had to convince Abe to kiss him a second time with a few startled tears rolling down his cheeks.

He can tell without asking that Mihashi doesn't understand, still a little dizzy from the flash fire that grazed them both a moment before—but it's all right, because Mihashi trusts him always, implicitly, and he's relaxing into Abe's embrace again, that precious right hand settling in the center of Abe's chest as if asking one more time if it's really his, the heart that beats under his skin. Abe rests his hand in the same place, question and answer in one. Then he leans in and yields to the magic of this, the spark of Mihashi's tongue brushing against his, the way Mihashi giggles when he misses in the dark and kisses his chin, the brilliance of amber-brown eyes staring into his, so bright that sometimes he thinks he'll go blind—the thrill of standing on the precipice of something but not yet surrendering to the fall.

Home runs get all the attention, and someday, sure, he'd like to hit it out of the park—but for now, Abe's just fine at first base. He knows enough about baseball to know that sometimes a single is all you need.


End file.
